Shadows on a Motel Wall
by Sierra Phoenix
Summary: Any other nine year old boy in the world would make it a point not to be afraid of the dark, but Sam knows better. It's not the dark he fears, but what could be hiding in it. And Sam knows all about the things that hide in the dark.


**Title: **Shadows on a Motel Wall  
**Author: **Sierra Phoenix  
**Disclaimer: **_Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me. Not even a little bit.  
**Summary: **Any other nine-year-old boy in the world would make it a point _not_ to be afraid of the dark, but Sam knows better. It's not the dark he fears, but what could be hiding in it. And Sam knows all about the things that hide in the dark.  
**Notes: **Based on Sam's dialogue in the pilot: "When I told Dad I was scared of the thing in my closet he gave me a .45. I was nine years old! He was supposed to say don't be afraid of the dark."

* * *

They've been traveling for months on end, and each new motel room looks just like the last. From the matted carpet to the hideous wallpaper and bedspreads, it all blends into one generic room, and for all intents and purposes it might as well _be_ the same room.

Even the towns look the same: indiscriminately, picture-perfect normal. Of course, the towns never are _normal_; that's why Sam and his brother and father are there. There's always something dark looming in each town, some terrible secret, and they won't leave until Sam's father has seen it destroyed. And then they'll go, onto the next town and the next monster, not even staying long enough for Sam's teachers to remember his name. This time will be no different from the others.

And just like all the times before, _it_ has followed them.

Sam's never seen it, but he's sure it's there, lingering in the shadows of the closet of every motel room in which they've ever stayed. Any other nine-year-old boy in the world would make it a point _not_ to be afraid of the dark, but Sam knows better. It's not the dark he fears, but what could be hiding in it. And Sam knows all about the things that hide in the dark.

Even though Sam is frightened by that nagging sense that something is creeping in the dark recesses of the closet, just beyond his sight, it's not usually a problem because Dean is there. While Sam would hate the thought of looking like a coward in front of his older brother, he knows that Dean would protect him from anything. So long as Dean is around, everything is okay and Sam can breathe easy.

But tonight Dean won't be with him.

Dean's endless begging to accompany their father on his hunts has finally paid off. Apparently, John Winchester figures that fourteen is old enough for a boy to become a man and learn to hunt; either that or he's caved to Dean's demands simply to shut him up. For Sam, it's like his worst nightmare brought to life. They're going to leave him alone. With _it_.

He's never felt such stark terror as he does now.

"Can't I go with you?" Sam pleads. Whatever they're planning to face out there can't be as frightening as staying behind and facing _it_ alone. At least out there they'd be _together_.

"No," his father answers.

"But why not?" Sam complains further, pushing against his father's unrelenting boundaries. Testing the limits of John Winchester's patience is becoming something of a hobby for Sam. Each day he pushes just a little bit more, learning how much – or how little – his father will give; one day their game of tug-o-war will hit a stalemate, both either unable or unwilling to give one more inch, and that's when things will fall apart.

There's no answer from his father, not even the typical parental response of _because I say so_. The man single-mindedly packs equipment into a bag as if he'd hadn't even heard his son speak.

It's a fair sign that that Sam has already lost the argument – after all, arguing with their father is just not done; Sam knows this, but he's not ready to give in just yet. "Please?" he begs earnestly, a last-ditch effort, though likely futile.

The limits of John's patience snap like rubber bands. "I said _no_, Sam."

Sam chews nervously on his bottom lip, eyes darting to the room's closet. The light from the window is fading as the afternoon gives way to evening, and the sun's rays barely touch the closet. Already shadows are crawling in to swathe the small storage space in unfathomable darkness. For all Sam can see, _it_ may already be there, waiting.

"But what if it comes after me?" Sam breathes the words out in a rush, barely audible; he hadn't even intended to say them, but they just seemed to spill out unbidden.

The admission startles both Dean and John, and each stops what they're doing.

John's attention snaps to his youngest, like a guard dog with its hackles raised. "What if _what_ comes after you, Sam?"

Placed under the scrutiny of his father's stare, Sam almost wishes he hadn't said anything. John himself can be fearsome when he's caught the scent of something evil.

Sam releases a quiet sigh; too late to take the words back now, his only choice is to explain. "The thing in the closet."

John looks immediately to the open closet, gaze lingering briefly before turning back to Sam.

For a moment, Sam thinks his father might tell him that there's nothing there, that there's no reason to be afraid of the dark, and Sam wishes that he would. If _John Winchester_ says there's nothing to fear, then there isn't.

But his father doesn't say anything. He digs something out of his bag, reaches Sam in two quick strides, and shoves the object into Sam's hands.

Sam looks down to find one of his father's guns, the metal cold and heavy in his hands.

He looks back up at his father, eyes wide and fearful. "But…"

"Anything comes out of that closet, you shoot it. Just like I've shown you."

And that's it. His father's only advice is 'if it moves, shoot it.' Belatedly, Sam realizes that he should have expected that; he knows better, knows his _father_ better, than to expect any sort of comfort from him.

He looks to Dean now instead, and Dean looks back. The silent exchange between brothers is one that has played out a thousand times before. Sam needs something, and as always Dean yields, incapable of letting Sam down in any way. It's not an intentional action by either of them, it's simply the way things are, as natural to the two of them as breathing.

"Maybe I should stay," Dean entreats his father.

The look John gives his older son is almost scathing, an answer in itself. "Get your stuff and let's go."

Confliction mars Dean's face. When he looks back at Sam, his eyes are laden with guilt, apology, and regret, and Sam knows that his father has won the battle this time around.

His father picks up the weapon bag, throws is over one shoulder, and walks out the door without any further instruction. Dean takes a second to hurry over to Sam and whisper a few words of encouragement. "We'll be back before you know it, Sam. Don't worry."

Dean puts a supportive hand on Sam's shoulder, giving it tight squeeze, and it's almost enough to calm Sam. _Almost_. The moment is over too quickly, and suddenly Dean is heading for the door with one last glance over his shoulder.

"Lock the door behind us," John calls out just before he pulls the door closed.

Sam moves to the door and flips the deadbolt; he's seen Dean perform the action often enough that his movements are more automatic than thought. Outside he can hear the engine of the Impala start-up, the sound of it growing distant as they leave the parking lot. And then Sam is alone.

The first ten minutes aren't so bad. Sam begins to think that maybe – just _maybe_ – he was overreacting. But then night starts to descend. The shadows in the closet become an impenetrable, inky blackness. Like the story about another world in the wardrobe, Hell itself could be lurking deep within the vast darkness of the closet, and Sam wouldn't know.

Unconsciously, Sam begins to distance himself from the closet. He starts when his back hits the wall. He slides along until he's worked himself into the corner of the room, the one farthest from the closet, then slides down into a crouch, just shy of curling into a protective ball.

His eyes are riveted to the closet's gaping maw, primed and waiting for whatever horrors might come spilling out; if he were to look away for even a moment, _it_ might catch him off guard. The cold metal in his hand is less than comforting, but he clutches onto the gun all the same, accepting whatever protection it might offer, no matter how meager.

He counts the seconds as they pass, then the minutes, till eventually they stretch into hours.

Traitorous fear slips icy-cold into his skin, seeps deep into his bones, and starts a staccato rhythm in his heart. He's shivering, hands slick with cold sweat, making it difficult to maintain a solid grip on the gun in his hands.

When it feels like years have gone by and they still haven't returned, Sam begins to worry even more. A terrifying thought – even more frightening than what's in the closet – comes to mind: _what if they don't come back?_

They don't really need him, do they? A boy that's afraid of the dark, that jumps at shadows. Sam's never liked their gypsy lifestyle to begin with, and perhaps they think they'll be better off without him.

Part of him is absolutely certain that his big brother would _never_ leave him behind while the other part worries that, if his father decreed it, Dean would follow without a second thought about Sam.

Time stands still, and it seems like his whole life has been spent waiting, forever crouched in that corner. Maybe time really _has_ stopped.

As eternities pass and still no sign of his family, Sam's worries turn even darker. What if they _can't_ come back? What if what they were hunting was too quick for them? What if they're hurt, stranded out there somewhere, and need Sam's help? What will become of Sam if Dean isn't there to take care of him and his father isn't there to protect them?

A renewed feeling of dread weighs down muscles that are already exhausted from being tensed in vigil for so long. _Where are they_?

His mind is racing, so preoccupied and overwhelmed with fear and worry that he doesn't even notice the sound of the lock clicking open. It isn't until the door swings open wide that Sam takes notice, sucking in a sharp breath.

It takes several seconds for Sam to recognize that it's his brother standing in the doorway, but when he does, he springs into action, putting the long-pent energy to use. He sprints to the door, so fast that he can barely register his relief before he's moving, and Sam flings his lanky frame at his brother, throwing his arms around him and clutching tight, like the older boy is his lifeline.

"Whoa," Dean exclaims, struggling to stay upright under the added weight of Sam and the weight of the bags hanging from his shoulder. Still, Dean places a warm, steadying hand on the younger boy's back, and _finally_ Sam feels safe again. All his tension and fear rushes out of him in one long, shuddering exhale. He hangs on a moment longer, one hand fisted tightly in Dean's shirt, before finally releasing him and stepping back.

Now that Sam is free of his mind-numbing fear, embarrassment over his moment of weakness sweeps in and his face turns red. In a poor attempt to shrug off his humiliation, he asks, "What took you so long?" He tries to sounds scolding and nonchalant, but the tremor in his voice gives him away.

Dean doesn't call him on it though. He sets his bags down and closes the door behind him. Their father isn't with him, but it never occurs to Sam to ask where he might be; that Dean is with him now is enough.

"I would have been back sooner, but that spirit was a tough old bitch," Dean answers.

"And I thought you said you had a way with women," Sam taunts with a grin. The terror of the night is finally starting to fade a bit.

"Ha ha," Dean responds dryly with a mock-annoyed glare. "Isn't it past your bedtime, short-stack?"

Normally Sam _would have_ been asleep by now, but with _it_ looming in the closet, rest was an impossibility. Sam's eyes flick back to the closet, the darkened space less terrifying now in the presence of his older brother. Even so, looking into that abyss still sends a shiver up his spine.

There's a click of sound, and suddenly the darkness is illuminated, shadows retreating under the beam of Dean's flashlight. The older boy creeps in closer, shining the light more into the closet until all the darkness has vanished. Once he's satisfied that there's nothing there, he flicks the flashlight off again and turns back to Sam. With a careless shrug of his shoulder, he says, "Just checkin'."

The two boys get ready for bed, stripping down to boxers and t-shirts, and once Sam has crawled into his bed, Dean turns out the light. The dim glow of the moon through the window is barely bright enough for Sam to make out shapes in the dark. His eyes are drawn helplessly once again to the closet.

Dean's flashlight turns on again, and he turns to his little brother. "You want to hear about tonight's hunt?"

Sam gives a quick nod, grateful for the reprieve. Dean scoots over and pats the empty space next to him on the bed. It's all the invitation Sam needs, and he eagerly jumps out of his own bed, crawling in next to his big brother. Dean doesn't complain when Sam presses in closer than necessary.

Dean balances the flashlight against his side, angling it upward, the light's beam flashing bright against the room's dinghy ceiling. He brings his hands up into light's path, casting hand-shaped shadows across the wall. They've done this before when Sam couldn't sleep, ghost stories told in shades of light and dark. They're the kind of stories that would scare other children and should usher away sleep rather than welcome it, but Sam never feels safer than when he's curled against his big brother, listening to stories about monsters.

"We went out to the old woman's house…" Dean starts, gesturing to imitate the story's actions, and Sam watches and listens with rapt attention.

The words play out through Dean's hands, a monster and hero in silhouette, and for a brief moment all the world's evil is nothing more than shadows on a motel wall.

END


End file.
